by A. J. Flynn
Copyright © 2021 A.J. Flynn
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Coverbarn
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Copyright
Epigraph
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
Afterword
"When our actions do not, our fears do make us traitors."
William Shakespeare
I
The officer’s neck muscles corded as he clenched his teeth and struggled to swallow. They weren’t searching for a lost child anymore. They’d found him, but he was a dead child. A murdered young boy.
The wind whispered through the boughs of the looming evergreens, as though they were talking about him lying there, crumpled on the damp spongy ground. Dead bodies were a common enough occurrence for him, but when it was a child like this one, strangled, then tossed beneath a clump of bushes like garbage, it felt different.
He couldn’t have been much older than thirteen, and small for his age at that. Skinny, with bony elbows and knees, angled out and covered by the crimson flannel of his bathrobe.
Strange thing about that bathrobe. He lived no more than a block from where he had been found, but it was still odd, his leaving to go out in his pajamas and robe. Children that age were usually sensitive about what they wore and were careful to fit in and dress like everybody else.
The officer moved to where the underbrush hid half the body, and covered the boy’s face. Strangled victims were nothing new, but this one hit too close to home. His own boy would be fourteen this summer.
He rubbed his hands together quickly to warm them, then grabbed a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket and after burning through four matches got one lit. The amber glow from the little coal was comforting, for though he was far from timid, he had never gotten used to standing watch over the newly dead. After two or three drags he flashed his torch over the nearby ground, not that it helped, but it was something to occupy him until the technical crews arrived.
There was no more to see than the last time he looked. A sparse spattering of footprints the murderer had tried to brush away with a tree branch, and the loosened soil where he had uprooted some nearby brambles to hide the body.
It was a botched job. Amateur all the way to the quick, and he must have been in one hell of a hurry too, because there were several footprints he’d missed altogether, and the body’s hiding place had been discovered by the first man with a dog that stumbled upon the path. If it were six or eight months later it couldn’t have happened because the contractor who had put up the development where the boy lived had received permits to build more houses on this tract.
He shivered and began walking back toward the road. The crew was taking their sweet time getting there. His partner was a little was further down the block looking over some fresh tire tracks they’d found. They most likely didn’t mean anything, though. Probably just some kids who parked to snuggle, perhaps, but in police work nothing could be overlooked until it had been thoroughly investigated. Most leads came to nothing, but sometimes they were enough to trip a criminal until he fell flat on his face. The one clue that came out right seemed to make up for all of the other missed connections.
Car lights flashed into view at the corner, so he crushed his cigarette and walked briskly to his appointed post.
He could make out the panel truck and the car that followed it up to the curb, then the men stepped out. There was hardly any confusion as they unloaded their equipment and, after locating the signal light, began down the narrow path. Once on the scene they assembled their lights and began the routine measures, photographing and preparing casts of the clearer footprints.
They were working with quiet efficiency when Police Lieutenant Emma McPherson, accompanied by the boy’s father, Dan Turner, came into view. What little chatter there had been stopped abruptly at their approach.
Turner looked to be at least five years shy of McPherson’s thirty-eight years, but he looked and acted as if he might be a decade older. McPherson’s broad face was resolute and her keen eyes took in everything as they entered the lighted area.
“This is Mr. Turner,” she announced shortly and, pulling her shoulders back, continued to the spot where the men with the cameras were working.
Turner, a tall thin man, head down, shuffled behind her; he looked to be about six feet two but he couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred and forty pounds. Even under the best of conditions he wouldn’t be much to look at, but in the eerie light and after the strained tension of waiting to hear what happened to his boy, he appeared cadaverous.
“Can you give us more light over here?” McPherson said as she turned and grabbed Turner’s arm. Nobody answered as a powerful light hovered over the spot.
“This isn’t going to be easy, Mr. Turner, and we know it just as well as you do, but we need a positive identification.”
Turner nodded by way of answer, then shuffled closer to the crumpled form. You could almost read his thoughts as he neared the body. He knew it was his boy, but the slowness of his shuffle showed how much he fought believing it. As though it might go away if he could somehow avoid looking. He passed his hand nervously over his perspiring face and managed the final few steps. With great effort he looked at the twisted face of what so recently had been his son, then turned and walked a few feet back to McPherson.
He stood there for a minute, all the while seeming to grow more thin and stooped by the second. Then he said in a low whispered tone, “Yes. It’s Charlie.”
The wind sighing through the trees was the only reply as he started back towards the car, shuffling even heavier now as if he were weighed down by lead.
“You boys finish up. I’ll take Turner home and see you later.”
With that McPherson turned and followed the bereaved father back through the narrow path. When they reached the car, the officer-driver held the back door open and they both got in.
“We’ll take Mr. Turner home now, Taylor,” and as the driver stepped in and started up, Turner twisted to glance out the back window at the strange scene of swaying trees frosted here and there by unseen lights. Almost like a Christmas scene, except without the celebration.
“I’d like to say how sorry I am,” McPherson said softly in an effort to divert the man from the scene.
Turner returned to his front-facing posture. “Thanks. You know, I’ve never considered myself a vengeful man, but right now I feel like I could kill.” There was no clear sign of anger in his words, only a mild air of surprise.
“I think I might understand. I’ve seen a lot of things that make me want to kill, but if I acted on it that would put me right down there with the people I’m trying to catch. Once the shock w
ears off you’ll fall into mourning just as you would expect.”
“Maybe you’re right. Right now I don’t seem to feel much of anything.”
Taylor stopped the car in front of the Turner house, and they stepped out. “You better let me tell Carolyne. It might be easier if the news comes from me rather than some stranger.”
McPherson almost sighed with relief. Telling the next of kin was the part of her job she most readily avoided if possible.
“It’s up to you, Turner. I hope you understand that I’ll need to ask some questions. I know this feels like a hell of a time for it but the sooner we get going the sooner we’ll be able to find the person responsible.”
Turner nodded, and they walked in silence together to the white house with the cornflower blue shutters.
The house was nearly identical to the others on the block except for the color. They were all low ranch-style with wide picture windows facing the street. Picture windows, sure, McPherson thought in passing, but why would you want them facing the street?
Turner opened the front door and motioned for McPherson to step inside. There wasn’t a foyer, and the door opened directly into the living room.
Mrs. Turner and another woman sat on the couch. The mother was dressed in a worn and faded housecoat and her face was ravaged. Her light blue eyes seemed to have lost their color and were deeply circled. Even more than her husband, every minute held in waiting had left its mark on her face.
Dan stepped towards his wife and took her hands in his. “It was Charlie, dear, he won’t be coming home. Do you understand?”
Carolyn stared at her husband for a few moments, then said, “You found him though? He didn’t run away like they said?”
All three of them gazed at her with feelings of pity and discomfort.
“Yes, dear, you were right. He never ran away,” Turner answered gently. “This is Lieutenant Emma McPherson, and she has a few questions for you,” he continued as he took a seat beside his wife. Then, as though he’d just remembered his manners, said, “This is Mrs. Shepherd. She’s been helping out.”
The two exchanged nods, and McPherson returned her attention to Mrs. Turner.
“I know this is a bad time to have to answer questions, Mrs. Turner, but the quicker we can collect all the available information, the sooner we can track down the person responsible.”
She was careful to keep her voice low. The boy’s mother was calm…too calm, and she wanted to know all she could tell her before her composure broke.
“I’ll answer your questions, but note that I was right. He never ran away from me and his father. He loved us, and he never would have run away, like everyone thought.” Her matter-of-fact tone was chilling.
Mrs. Shepherd rested her hand on the bereaved woman’s arm. “You were right, dear. He never ran away.”
“When did you first notice he was gone?” McPherson asked. “I know you’ve already answered this question to other officers, but I’d like to hear it firsthand.”
Though it had been less than twenty-four hours since the boy’s disappearance, it was a great effort for the mother to remember.
“Well, Charlie went to bed at about eight thirty. He had just finished practicing his violin. He loves his violin so much, but he plays so poorly, even though he always practices… I guess he just isn’t meant to be a musician.”
“Yes, Mrs. Turner,” McPherson interrupted gently, “but when was the first time you noticed he was gone?”
“Why, it was just before getting ready for bed. I stepped in to see that the boys were tucked in. I always step in to see if the boys are tucked in. Just like clockwork, every night I step in to see if the boys are tucked in.” Her voice was like a small child’s reciting a lesson.
“Yes, but do you remember what time that was? Ten? Eleven?”
Her forehead wrinkled in thought. “I suppose it must have been about eleven. Dan and I usually go to bed around eleven.”
“And you said the window was open, and he was gone, but his clothes were still there, correct?”
She smiled lightly, and the sight of that smile on her ravaged face made McPherson’s heart ache.
“Of course his clothes were still there. He is a very polite and well-behaved boy, and he knows I wouldn’t want him getting dressed at that hour.”
McPherson shifted in her seat uncomfortably. Her boy hadn’t run away, and her belief in him was perfectly justified, but she still hadn’t accepted the fact that her boy was dead. Better get on with it, she thought; the woman needed to see a doctor.
“So you didn’t hear anything during the evening? No scuffle or anything out of place?”
“Of course not.” She looked at McPherson like she was one of her children asking her foolish questions. “The neighborhood is always quiet, so what would there be to hear?”
She was beginning to lose ground, and like most seasoned campaigners, she knew when to draw back. Then too, the mother apparently had nothing to say that hadn’t already been said.
There was no point in carrying on the questioning, so she rose to her feet.
“If I need anything else, I’ll call you, but for now you should both try to get some sleep. Perhaps your doctor can prescribe something to help.”
“Thank you, but I think I’ll stay up waiting a little longer for Charlie,” the mother replied with complete conviction.
A glance passed between McPherson and Mrs. Shepherd. Somehow she felt that Mrs. Turner was in good hands. Lord knew she needed help. She bid them goodnight, then left through the front door. Turner followed her out to the car, and though he was obviously still in a state of shock, managed to remain rational and composed.
“We didn’t hear anything strange or out of the ordinary. If someone had taken him by force, I’m certain we would have heard something. The house isn’t that big.”
“No,” McPherson agreed, “there’s no sign of forced entry at the window, or that anyone but Charlie had been walking around out there. He must have left of his own free will.”
“Yes, but why?” The father’s voice was hoarse, as he asked again. “That’s the part I don’t understand. Why?”
“That’s a question everyone’s going to be asking soon enough,” McPherson observed mildly. “For now, though, I think we’ve done all there is to be done. You go ahead and get back to your wife. She needs you. And if I were in your shoes I’d call a doctor. She’s in an anxious state.”
“Dr. Blackwell stops by from time to time. Most likely Mrs. Shepherd called him as soon as she learned Charlie was found.
“You’ll let me know what you find out? I don’t seem to be comprehending all that well tonight, but I think I’ll be better in the morning.”
“I’ll get back in touch with you as soon as there’s anything to report,” McPherson said, placing a friendly hand on Dan’s arm, “and tonight you better have the doctor prescribe you something too. Staying up all night won’t help anything.”
“Sure, Lieutenant,” Dan agreed, and with a small wave of his hand walked slowly back to his devastated home.
McPherson’s mood was one of deep depression as she returned to her patrol car. There was something defenseless and pathetic about people like the Turners when a tragedy like this struck. A fatal accident was relatively easy to accept, but a murder was beyond most people’s powers of conception. Murder was something that only happened in fiction. Something that gave them something to watch or read about at night, or something vaguely typed out in headlines. Never something that happened to them and theirs.
Taylor was just finishing a radio report when McPherson slid into the front seat. “I’d like to go back and see if the lab boys stumbled on anything else,” she said abruptly.
“O.K.,” was all Taylor said in reply. He had long since learned to know when the lieutenant wasn’t in the mood for conversation, so they drove on the rest of the way in silence.
The floodlights were still flashing through the swaying trees, and once the car had ro
lled to a stop the two officers stepped out and started down the narrow path toward the activity.
The body had been removed, but the coroner was still there. The lab men were packing up their equipment and carefully packaging the casts they had made of the footprints.
“Anything else?” McPherson asked to everyone in the vicinity.
“Nothing you don’t already know about,” someone answered.
“How about you, Doc? Have anything for me?”
Dr. Phillips shifted his bag from one hand to another. “Nothing much. Cause of death appears to be strangulation, or suffocation, perhaps a bit of both. I found bruises on the lips and nose, and a few on the throat. They don’t appear to be particularly penetrating. In fact, they were so superficial that they could have been made by a young person. Perhaps someone was trying to keep him quiet and overdid it.”
McPherson thought this over as she flicked the butt of her cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the heel of her shoe.
“What about his fingernails? Any signs that he scratched his attacker, or pulled out any hair?”
“We’ll take a closer look when we get him downtown,” the doctor answered, “but his fingernails appeared to be too short to scratch. There may be hairs, but the lab will have to look for those. There’s one funny thing I should mention, though. The fingers on his left hand were thick with calluses, but there weren’t any on the right.”
“He played violin,” McPherson stated absently. “Other than the bruises, you didn’t find anything?”
“No. We might have more to tell you once we’ve completed the examination.”
McPherson rubbed her shoulder and said, more to herself than to anyone else, “What I can’t seem to figure out is why he snuck out in the first place. It seems out of character, from everything we’ve learned about him so far.”
Taylor roused himself and offered an idea. “What if he got mixed up with some pedo, then backed out as soon as he learned the score?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” McPherson said slowly, “but for Christ sake don’t say that kind of thing where anyone around can hear you. The last thing we need right now is neighborhood panic.”
